


War Song

by Ilirea



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fate/ Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, I took some (a lot) of liberties with magic, I'm not sure if counts as death if they are heroic spirits but I tagged just to be sure yes, M/M, Neil Josten as Nathaniel Wesninski, No prior Fate knowledge required, Shapeshifting, and with the legends that make each character, just pain, no exy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilirea/pseuds/Ilirea
Summary: Living on the run from his father and his lackeys, Nathaniel was the first choosen master for the next holy grail war. Lost and alone, all he wanted was to be a free man and run as far away from said war as possible.It was not like Nathaniel asked to be a magus, to be a master or to be part of a holy grail war. It was not like Nathaniel got what he wanted, ever.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	War Song

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This is my first fic for this fandom and I'm a little nervous with well, everything hah  
> Well, let's get into it!  
> This is kind-of a Fate crossover but you don't really need to know anything about it, I will do by best to provide all knowledge necessary and shoot me a comment (or an anonymous ask on tumblr if you're shy! It's Connaweir) and I will do my best to answer everything.  
> Also, take care. There are graphic descriptions of violence, of Neil's panicked mental state and well... All canon-typical, I think, but still  
> Also, I'm a mess who isn't a native english speaker so feel free to point out any errors

“The thing is that you absolutely hate yourself. Your very breath is a sin and your body is condemned. Your voice only carries despair to those that hear it and your eyes taint the existence of those who you put your sight on.

You were never capable to know who you truly are; you never were able to pull the war inside both parts of you into an end.

You were also never able to forget the punishment for walking under the same sun as all other mortals. The itch in your scarred skin was always a cruel reminder, mock and taunt for such a dirty being like you to be merely alive.

You’re a corrupted life form after all. You’re hot, you’re cold. You’re black and you’re white. You’re also the fury of war and the calm breeze of peace. You’re the love of a mother and the hate of a soldier. You’re the rotten stench of a corpse and the suave perfume of a flower. You’re the warm shoulder of a friend and the cold steel of the barrel of a gun. You’re a mix of things that shouldn’t go together, that shouldn’t exist. Just like you.

No temple will accept you; no true love’s kiss will mend your broken insides.

Scream to a god that doesn’t exist, cry for a force that will laugh into your face. Tear down your destiny just to see it sew itself in place and strangle you.

You feel the hot steam that comes from your own demons’ mouth down your neck, you feel the hands of your ghosts travel down your skin and abuse your body.

Drown into your own panic, feel your lungs intake darkness and desolation. Feel the loneliness into your own struggle to live, feel like all your tries are a lie, because that’s what they are after all.

You don’t really want to live, you’re just a puppet of someone else wishes, it seems. You also don’t really want to die, but being here is nothing short of a curse. You don’t want to disappear but also don’t want to say. You don’t really know what you want, do you?

In the end, you’re nothing more than a shadow of a lost spirit wandering into an endless void of your own screams begging for help.”

Nathaniel let out a bitter laugh and crumpled the paper, using a wisp of magic to turn it into ashes, careful to not let the fire spread too much into the ground, after all the autumn leaves were way too prone for causing forest fires and that was the last thing Nathaniel needed. For someone who was bound to live such a ridiculously long life, such a ridiculously alone life, venting his thoughts in writing was a surprisingly good and easy way to ease turmoil of his own heart.

Not like it mattered in the long run, of course. But well, better write venom about himself than insane, he supposed. Or maybe not. Maybe if he went just a _little bit_ crazy, things could be solved and fall into place in a more bearable way.

Well, not really. He could almost feel the pain in his ears from his mother’s nails with the thought of drawing attention to himself and his fucked up mixed powers while going into killing spree, almost taste the blood in his mouth from the slaps she would give to his face, the cuts from her rings stinging for the audacity of thinking that _anything, everything_ , was better than living like this.

Not like she was here to say anything anymore but still.

That was quite a lot of noes wasn’t it?

But then again, Nathaniel’s whole life was based in the things he could not have instead of what he wanted, so wasn’t like it made any kind of big difference. Starting with the fact that the he didn’t even know what he actually wanted, besides ease the bone-deep tiredness of living in the run, the aching loneliness and the all-consuming flaming anger he held so close to his heart.

Once a magus always a magus he supposed, trying to curl up into his coat to chase the warmth of the old fur – barely there anymore – that lined the fabric and get at least a few hours of sleep before hunting down the next meal, possibly look for a nearby town so he could buy some new clothes that were actually warm and could protect him from the autumn winds.

Careful to pat down his coat pocket, Nathaniel followed his own paranoia induced ritual of checking if his most prized possession was still here or if his coat - one that once upon a time had been a dark green and nowadays spotted a disgusting shade of brown with splashes of blood and god knows what else – had finally given up his ratty pockets and the item was lost forever. His fingers lightly stroking the waxed paper meticulously folded to protect a small leather pouch that any magi would kill to get, relaxing his stance slightly with the knowledge that it was _there._

They would also kill to steal the tattoo on the back of Nathaniel’s hand, the red and black intertwining lines that formed a complicated design that vaguely resembled a mouth full of sharp teeth. A fitting choice for what the pouch held, an unfitting choice for Nathaniel, who never wanted to be a magus in first place, never asked to be born into old blood with one of the most powerful magic crests – the secrets of a family passed from magus to magus until the end of their line. He never asked to be a master, to fight to a very certain death because of a glorified gold cup that people insisted that was _holy._ That would guarantee any wish, that would give you anything your heart desired for the very simple price of murdering the other participants of a game of war, violence and dominance that he didn’t want to be part of.

A holy grail war was what Nathaniel was marked for. And a holy grail war was what Nathaniel would absolutely refuse to participate. Let the other idiots kill themselves if they wanted, let them keep dreaming of a war that would never happen if he had any saying on it, after all no grail war could happen with only six participants.

He would not use the relic contained in the leather pouch, he would not bring forth whatever heroic spirit, whatever legend or person from the past that was so engraved in history that could even come forth as familiar of sorts for a fight that he, Nathaniel, preferred to die before entering.

Shaking his head to dissipate the million per-hour thoughts that plagued his mind, Nathaniel curled more tightly into his coat, cursing the magus that burned the duffel that held his sleeping bag not even a week ago. He missed his sleeping bag; he missed his blanket and the food.

Specially the food. Hunting was hard, tiresome, didn’t always go as expected and Nathaniel didn’t really know if he would have the energy to do it tomorrow after what he was sure would be a mediocre night of sleep. Well, there was no use crying over it before trying anyway. He needed sleep way more than he needed easy food at the moment, after all. Nathaniel had been awake for three days – give or take – and the strain of keeping himself awake and alert was already draining his magic and dulling his senses to the point that he could barely feel the wards he had rose around himself.

In the moment, all Nathaniel could do was hope that he had really lost his attackers in the last days he spent running and using his mother’s celestial magic to erase his trail. It had to be enough, right? After all it was not like he could do much more now. With his own paranoia somewhat seated, Nathaniel was fast asleep in a matter of seconds.

He didn’t even get full eight hours of sleep before being woke up to a violent hit in the head and a harsh kick in the stomach, laughter and mocking voices all around him. _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. That voice, please, don’t…_

“Oh Junior, fancy to meet you here!” It was difficult to say if Patrick DiMaccio was grinning or just making a show of his teeth, sharpened into a grotesque show of power, since his father and his inner circle of magi relied into blood magic for the most part. Be that blood their own or from their victims. Not much of a difference for them. “Aren’t you a little bit far from home?”

Nathaniel head throbbed, his vision blurring with the sheer terror DiMaccio’s voice ignited in his insides. Flanking him where Ferdinand and Proust, hands emitting a warm and almost welcoming glow that didn’t fool Nathaniel for even a second. Who knew what those two had in mind for him until he was taken to his father in order to steal his command seal tattoos? Certainly not Nathaniel, that was not really interested in discover what his father lackeys wanted to do with his already fucked up self.

All in all? He was as good as dead now. Actually, Nathaniel would be way better if he was dead. The thought was almost funny. Almost. That didn’t mean that he was going to give up this easily. If he was going down, he was going down fighting. And if he was going down, both his command seals and his relic were going down too. No grail war was going to happen without him, he would make sure of it.

No brand of magic, no blood, no family ramification, absolutely _nothing_ would make him submit. Never again he would be at the whims of any magus. Nathaniel was a free man and a free man he would remain.

Or he would die trying.

Sending a quick prayer to the stars above, Nathaniel lolled his head to the side as if too dazed to stand on his own, letting himself be hoist up by his armpits by a still laughing Patrick, making a wheezing sound when well placed punch added to the already pulsing pain on his stomach and more laughter filled the forest again.

“Junior, Junior, we were so worried,” Proust voice dripped with fake-sweet concern. “you have no idea how anxious I was to see you again.”

Nathaniel shuddered at the words, knowing both Proust and Ferdinand’s magecraft was deeply connected to the mind and its emotions and their ability with illusions and mental damage it left wasn’t something to be taken lightly. He needs to scape and he _needs to scape_ or he needs to die and he needs to do it _fast._

Concentrating on the tattoos that dotted his arms – conductors for an easier access for the constellations above and their power – Nathaniel flexed his arms, chanting rapidly under his breath and _pushed_. The miniature runes tattooed on his arms flared, the blue light visible even with the covering of his battered coat. Time seemed to stand still for a brief moment, Patrick snarling and drawing a long hunting knife with lightning speed, Proust and Ferdinand’s red magic glowing more powerful as they pulled power from the gems most likely hidden in their pockets, all of them ready to make it as painful as possible without killing him.

In a heartbeat, the world exploded.

The meteor shower that descended upon them didn’t really bother with friends or foes. Nathaniel’s desperation and lack of time made sure that anything and everything caught in its way would be either crushed to death or be engulfed by the flames it left on its wake.

DiMaccio swore, his knife ebbing itself into Nathaniel’s shoulder, dragging it out with a sickening wet sound. The blood dripping in the blade lightened up for a heartbeat before an opalescent shield rounded his form, the smile in DiMaccio’s face now morphed into a promise of damnation.

Nathaniel’s magic was unrelating. As if sensing its master’s pain, the meteor shower doubled the speed of the falling stars, the forest now ablaze with the fury of the flaming projectiles. All Nathaniel could do at the moment was pray to the celestial powers to take pity on him, to conduct the falling sky to not harm him that much. To let him live. Just this once, let him scape in one piece. Or as close to one piece as it was possible.

However, DiMaccio didn’t seem too keen in leaving Nathaniel to his own luck. With Proust and Kathy scrambling with their jewel magic to rise a makeshift ward, he was left with the task of securing the celestial magus and the leather pouch. With only his right hand needing to be intact, Patrick DiMaccio looked like someone who was going to have a field day into torturing Nathaniel into submission.

A thing said magus wasn’t going to give, if he had any saying on it.

Mentally thanking his mother for her magic crest, he chanted to the constellations, runes once again coming to life into tattooed skin.

Between the meteor shower and the now exploding ground underneath them, neither of the three magi sent by Nathaniel’s father had a chance to catch him before he was running, a tight grip into his own destroyed shoulder in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding and dull the pain, once again running for his life.

He knew that there was no way that either DiMaccio, Proust or Ferdinand would give up on him. And with the bleeding wound on his shoulder he was a very easy target, both to find and to catch.

Damn, damn, _damn._ He was out of options. Well, he did have one but that wasn’t a real option. Picking up the leather pouch folded into waxed paper meaning the end of not only his own life, it also means the end of other five lives. Between seven participants of a holy grail war only one could come victorious. And well, mages aren’t really merciful creatures.

He heard a shout in the distance, probably Proust being caught by one of the falling stars. Didn’t really seemed like someone dying so they would still come.

There was no time.

Nathaniel closed his eyes for a second, whispering a string of ‘I’m sorry’s for being such a coward, for not being willing to give up his life as he thought he could do, for… for everything and anything. All that while already using his sleeve to somewhat clean the ground and expose the soft grass bellow the yellow leaves, using his own blood to drawn a crude circle, with even cruder runes and symbols, the panic that took root deep into his insides fueling his body with just enough strength to finish the thing.

With shaking fingers and a vision now blotched with black dots, he felt the exact moment the meteors ceased to fall and the ones in the ground stopped to explode into the other magi feet.

It was now or never.

He had a few minutes tops until they got there, until Ferdinand plagued his mind with nightmares, until Proust tortured him with the worst kind of losing control there was out there and DiMaccio… Well, DiMaccio wouldn’t stop with a simple stab into his shoulder.

He would crave his magical crest out from his lower stomach, he would skin him until his magical circuits – the nerve endings that carried his magic – were visible and useless, he would use his blood magic to keep him alive while he took pleasure of taking Nathaniel apart piece by piece with Proust and Ferdinand doing a coordinated attack into his mind and then they would throw Nathaniel into his father’s feet and then…

_“By the steel of my blade, by the silver of my soul, let them be the essence that calls you fourth_

_By the stones of the stars, by the archduke of contracts that plagues my dreams, let those be the foundation_

_By the constellations that rise a wall against the wind that will certainly fall_

_By the four cardinal points that will be closed gates_

_By the three-forked road, I offer you the crown that reaches until the Kingdom rotates_

_So, I plead, come forth and live, let’s fight side by side”_ He dumped the leather pouch contents into the middle of the summoning circle, praying that the stars would look for him one more time today, just this once.

But the stars apparently had their fill of helping Nathaniel for the day. Absolutely nothing happened with the summoning circle. Nathaniel could hear the thundering footsteps of DiMaccio, Kathy and Proust, the sounds they made while stepping into anything and everything into the forest ground, the shoots of Gandr – bullets of a powerful curse – crashing into their wake.

Nathaniel was panting, his vision was slipping and his shoulder was on fire. He was going to faint, there were going to take him, he didn’t stand a chance, this was the bitter end of Nathaniel Abram. Ha. Not even in the end he could think of his father’s surname, could he? Or his father name. Or his face. Not even his own face, actually.

A hysterical laughter filled his ears and it took the magus a moment to identify it as his own.

Not only he was going to be handed into a silver plate, he was already mad without intervention from the jewel mages running after him. A truly bitter end to a truly bitter coward that just wouldn’t give up life like him.

And as the bitter being he was, Nathaniel refused to take his fate with closed eyes and begging for mercy. Just like Mary, Nathaniel would welcome his end with chin held high, with the pride of the celestial mages, with stars on his eyes.

As his father’s lackeys came close to the summoning circle, laughing at the cream-colored piece of fur in the middle, spitting at how he was a useless magus with a few tricks upon his slaves, a con artist with magical circuits and a soon to-be bitch of his father’s desires – and theirs – the air around Nathaniel heated up. The forest held its breath and Nathaniel curled his hands into fists.

This time, the world didn’t explode. This time, the world ignited. This time, the world _roared._

The burst of light and heat threw Nathaniel against a tree, his back colliding painfully and his vision faltering for a few seconds. Holding into his conscience with the sheer willpower to live and to be free, he tried to make sense of what exactly he had summoned.

The thing is, Mary never said that much about the holy grail war. All Nathaniel’s knowledge was prior their run and missing a few pieces at best, completely wrong at worse. He also didn’t really know what the leather pouch contained, aside the fact that it was a piece of animal skin that was supposed to be a relic to summon a heroic spirit and should be treated with utmost care. But whoever Nathaniel thought that might be summoned by the contents of an old bag, not even in his wildest dreams he thought it would be a monster.

Whatever he had summoned was _big_. Easily striking the three meters mark, the servant towered over Nathaniel, all cream-colored fur, lean muscle and an angry growling reverberating into his bones. The creature’s massive maw was dripping droll, each painfully sharp tooth at least the size of Nathaniel’s head, a red cave that he had no intention of getting lost into.

Or maybe he could. Being eaten by a supernatural giant beast seemed a brighter future than whatever his father had in store to him.

‘ _So, you are the magus that wishes to be my master._ ’ The cream-colored thing fixed his eyes into Nathaniel and the angry growl lost a few octaves in volume, now almost a purr. He – now Nathaniel knew it was a he – hadn’t said a word, the thoughts immediately translated into words inside his head into a deep and pleased voice.

‘ _Berserker class servant, Teumessian fox. Offspring of the first monsters, destroyer of cities and man-eating beast of Greece. Now, answer. Are you my master?_ ’ The Teumessian fox lowered its massive head until his golden eyes were level with Nathaniel.

But Nathaniel didn’t even have the time to answer before a myriad of colorful stones was thrown in their way, curses raining down both into him and the giant fox servant, paired with a ball of magical energy that was sure to explode and capture Nathaniel in the spot.

‘ _Annoying_.’ The servant moved like lightning inside the circle, turning sideways and shielding the magus from the upcoming projectiles, those bouncing inoffensively into the thick fur. His maw was once again drooling, this time into a maniac grin. Or the closest foxes could grin, more a menacing show of teeth than a real thing.

Nathaniel’s breath fell short at the display of power, his consciousness stubbornly trying to get away from him. He couldn’t faint now; he couldn’t give himself in a silver platter to his father. He couldn’t give this volatile servant, no, the _Teumessian fox,_ in a silver platter to his father. If he was going to be in hell as soon as his father saw him again, the giant servant would waltz into all the nine circles of it.

And that, that wouldn’t do.

Taking advantage of the momentary cover the soft colored body offered, Nathaniel slowly raised his hand, the black and red command seals glowing.

“ _You, who answered my call and heard my plea. I ask you, from the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three great words of power, come forth from the ring of restraint, protector of the holy balance!”_

The fox gave out a joyous laugh inside Nathaniel’s head, leaping out of the summoning circle and taking Proust into his jaws with nauseating sound of bones being triturating, of organs being crushed and the foul stench of intestines being ripped filling up the magus nostrils as the servant shook his head in a grotesque imitation of a dog playing with a toy, blood and body fluids painting his snout.

Kathy Ferdinand and Patrick DiMaccio weren’t even close to react in time to help their fellow magus. Not that they could really do something even to help themselves, in the end.

Kathy fired Gandrs left and right, the desperation in her retreating steps evident in how her aim was off, in how she couldn’t even think about shooting Nathaniel, the _master,_ instead of going against a servant. Specially a blood-crazed one who was took joy into ripping a man almost in two and playing fetch with the body. She didn’t really go very far before her left foot got caught into a stray root and she fell heavily into her ass, tears flowing freely down her glamoured face.

“ _Say it again. Call him a bitch._ ” The fox projected his voice into the forest, grinning again as he saw Ferdinand’s pants take a yellowish color and the smell of urine fill his senses. “ _Call him a bitch again. I dare you._ ”

“I won’t, I won’t, please, let me go.” Her eyes couldn’t find the Teumessian fox golden ones, frozen into her own fear of the bloodied servant and his mania-induced way of talking. “I won’t come close to your master again, ever. I swear, I swear, please.”

“ _I hate that word._ ” Was the fox simple answer, his paw already moving, the sharp claws slicing into skin, muscle and bone as if it was nothing, turning the woman into mush from waist up.

Both deaths, both so easy and meaningless and _fun_ to the giant servant, shocked Nathaniel to the core. Those two where powerful magi, powerful enough to be sent to hunt him, both experienced enough to trick and cripple other magi with the maximum of speed and efficiency that they could manage. And they were nothing but annoying flies into the fox eyes.

If the jewel mages were out that left…

Patrick DiMaccio was aiming a curse at him. Nathaniel couldn’t tell what kind, besides that it looked like a nasty mix of curling black and purple smoke and probably something he wouldn’t be able to revert himself. It was a promise of pain and violence that Nathaniel wouldn’t be able to make anything against.

He didn’t need to. With a graceful leap, the Teumessian fox was in front of DiMaccio. And he bit.

The whole scene, almost in slow motion, reminded Nathaniel of the times he had squeezed a grape with a little too much force, juice and the soft fruit inside spilling into his fingers. That was exactly what DiMaccio head did. First, the servant’s teeth punctured the skin, one by one into a macabre display of self-restraint mixed with trigger-happy bloodlust. Then, DiMaccio’s cranium just… shattered. Brain and blood splattered the fox fur, dripping down the magus now headless shoulders, the body falling down sound muffled by the mess of leaves in the forest ground.

“ _Well, that was disappointing.”_ The fox spit what was left of the head, sitting into his hind paws and focusing his slightly crazed stare into Nathaniel again. “ _For someone that left you like this and had that much of bravado I expected a lot more._ ”

“Well, you are a servant.” Was Nathaniel dazed answer. “I’m only human.”

“ _I don’t think that actually is the problem here._ ” The fox was back into his maniac grin. “ _Actually, I don’t think…_ ”

“Don’t.” Nathaniel’s voice was sharper this time. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“ _Very well._ ” The servant’s grin was even bigger now. “ _I’m tired of this, let’s make a little change of pace._ ”

Nathaniel couldn’t comprehend what happened next. In one minute, the berserker fox was… well, berserk – and in the other a small man dressed in black stood where once a giant monster was. Actually, small wasn’t a good word for him. The Teumessian fox was short, sure, but by no means he could be called small. Just like the fox form the man was muscle all over, the sandy colored fur now a mop of messy hair and the same golden eyes.

No, not the same. The fox eyes had lost the psychotic light and killing spree happiness, leaving an empty stare behind.

The celestial magus wasn’t sure which one unnerved him the most.

“Well little magus,” The Teumessian fox focused into Nathaniel, measuring him from head to toe. “I sure wish you better luck next time.”

And with that cryptic introduction, Nathaniel let the blackness that had threatened to consume him do its work.

**Author's Note:**

> (I think it’s all properly tagged now? I didn’t really know how if it counted as a crossover but I don’t think so? So yeah)


End file.
